The Spiked Heel

Marge walked to her desk, her shoulders erect, her head high. Griff glanced over his shoulder, through the windows. The couple were still there. He could not erase the smile from his face. He got to work on the order blanks, humming happily. “La-da-dee-dah, dee, dah, dah.”

“You are a smug idiot!” Marge said from her desk, enunciating each word clearly.

“Hmm?” he asked, looking up impishly.

“I was curious,” she said. “Is there any law against that?”

“Perish the thought,” Griff said. “Magruder’s bringing binoculars tomorrow. Why don’t we pack a picnic lunch and all—”

“Oh, shut up,” Marge said, angry. She tapped her foot viciously. “Really, Griff, sometimes… oh, the hell with it!”

“What, doll?” he said.

“Nothing. Just shut up, that’s all.” She sat fuming at her desk for several moments, and then her anger seemed to vanish completely. She rose, walked over to Griff’s desk, and sat on the edge. “But how can they stand it at this time of the year?” she asked innocently. “Don’t they just freeeeze up there?”

He called Hengman at three-thirty, when he was almost finished with the order blanks. Hengman’s secretary answered the phone and then connected Griff with Boris himself.

“Hello Boris,” Griff said, “how goes every little thing today?”

“Dun’t esk,” Hengman said. “What’s on your mind, Griffie?”

“This McQuade fellow,” Griff said. “He seems like a nice guy.”

“He’s ah hetchet men,” Hengman said.

“Where’d you get that?” Griff asked.

“From Chrysler. Dave Stiegman tuld me. He’s opp to no good, this McQued. You be careful ov him, Griffie.”

“He seems okay,” Griff said defensively.

“Seems, shmeems, I’m talling you. End you’re gung to be in conteck with him most, him being stock opp there in your office. So watch ott, I’m talling you.”

“How long will he be here?” Griff asked.

“In’dafnite,” Hengman said.

“What does that mean?”

“Jost what is says. In’dafnite. He’ll be here a lung time.”

“Well, he still seems to be a nice guy.”

“Sure, but I’m talling you what Dave Stiegman tuld me, that’s ull. I’m a reputter, that’s ull. Look, you got nothing else what to do but cull me? I’m a busy men.”

“Okay, Boris,” Griff said, laughing. “You know what I think, don’t you?”

“What’s det?”

“I think McQuade is after your job, Boris.”

“It’s not to left, snotnose,” Hengman said. “Wait. Soon you’ll be selling epples on the stritt. Den you’ll see how fonny it is.”

“I like apples,” Griff said.

“End I dun’t like westing time. Good-by, Griffie.”

Hengman hung up, and Griff put his phone back into the cradle, looking up to find McQuade standing near his desk. He did not know how long McQuade had been standing there, and his lack of knowledge brought this queasy sort of panic to his stomach again. But McQuade smiled down at him easily, and the panic disappeared, to be replaced by a sort of wariness generated by Hengman’s warning. Could McQuade really be a hatchet man? He would have to be careful.

“Sorry as hell to bother you, Griff,” McQuade said, “but I was wondering if any of those summaries had come in yet.”

Marge looked up. “I put them on your desk, Mr. McQuade,” she said. “We had a regular stampede with those things earlier today. You should have been here to see it.”

“Oh, thanks a lot, Marge.” He paused embarrassedly. “Say, is it all right for me to call you ‘Marge’?”

“Sure,” Marge said. “That is my name.”

McQuade smiled and walked over to his desk, but Griff noticed he had not returned the courtesy and asked Marge to call him “Mac.”

“Well,” McQuade said, “we’ve certainly had a good response, haven’t we?”

Griff nodded abstractly, and went back to pricing orders, struggling with Manelli’s code. McQuade picked up the sheaf of summaries on his desk and began leafing through them. Griff glanced up at him once, and then threw himself into the job wholeheartedly.

Black suede pump, 68-3125, $12.65, that’s GRHW.

Wht emb linen pump, 982–421, $12.00 that’s GR, now what the hell do I do for zeros? Oh, there it is: N. All light, GRNN.

Alabaster/blk pat pump, 714–768, OT, wht leather binding… figure fifty for the binding, open toe cancels out, more labor but less material, so add… what was the basic price? $13.35, plus…

“Here’s a good one,” McQuade said, laughing.

“Huh?” Griff looked up.